Man, I was actually asked to write a sequel!

Title: Moments
Author: legoline
Series: Sequel to Enter Avenger, but should work on its own, too.
Rating/Warnings/Notes: PG-13. Gen fic. No spoilers. 3,150 words.
Summary: Sam's rescued Dean from the vampires, but the real fight for his brother's life has only just begun.
A/N: Can't thank pheebs1 enough for helping me so much with this, for suggestions and corrections and knowing exactly where I wanted to take this. She thus claims the right to put Sam's memories into fanfic herself :-)
Feedback: Is Love.


Moments
by Steffi

There’s this moment in the car when Sam thinks that God, this is it, it’s all ending now. Dean’s very still, doesn’t stir at all because he’s so weak, like there’s no life left in him. He’s more lying, than sitting on the passenger seat, half leaning against the door. His forehead rests against the pane, his eyes are closed. Sam’s wrapped him into a blanket, because Dean must be so cold, but it seems that his brother doesn’t even have the strength to shiver anymore, so it’s really only a guess.

Sam’s glance wanders from the road to his brother and back constantly, his hands are so slick from sweat that a couple of times they’re close to losing their grip on the wheel. He honks, and curses and swears when the cars in front of him go too slowly; there’s a couple of red traffic lights he just ignores; the Impala skids as Sam avoids hitting a pedestrian, and it’s a miracle they don’t end up in a crash on top of things.

The moment Dean finally does stir comes unexpectedly. His body judders, convulses violently like he’s having a seizure, his eyes fling open but are unfocused. “Dean!” Sam yells, half watching out for the traffic on the street. Dean starts gasping for air, rattles, his eyes widen, then close, head falls back against the pane, and then he’s still again. Very, very still.

Sam doesn’t know whether to hit the brakes or not, whether he can afford to lose those precious seconds, so he just reaches out to Dean, to his brother’s shoulder and shakes him as much as he can to wake him, “Dean!” Sam’s deep voice is almost barking, orders, orders, Dean needs orders, “Don’t you dare give up on me now! Don’t you dare! Do you hear me?”

A second or two pass by in which nothing happens, Sam’s close to panic, oh God Dean...but then Dean’s eyelids flutter open, his eyes search for Sam’s, he looks confused - but he’s breathing. And he keeps breathing till they reach the hospital.

Later Sam will think that in that short moment Dean was already gone, but came back because he couldn’t deny a direct order.

***

The worst thing about the hospital is that Sam can’t do anything while Dean’s in treatment. Nothing, nada. Once he’s done making up a story about Dean’s condition – he found his brother like that in the motel when he came back, he suspects a gang or sect might have been responsible for this, but really he’s got no idea – the waiting begins. Endless hours he spends pacing up and down in front of the Operating Room, cross checking his watch with the clock on the wall – he even ignores his need to pee because what if they bring Dean out of the OR, right that moment when he’s away? What if Dean’s conscious, and Sam’s not there?

He won’t have that.

The clock ticks on mercilessly, like a warning. Like it’s trying to point out to Sam that Dean’s been in there for quite a while, and that only very grave stuff takes that much time to be fixed, if it can be fixed at all. Eventually Sam stops pacing, and leans against the wall of the corridor, hands in his pockets, his head tilted back a little. He’s not averted his glance from the swing doors that lead to the OR once. A nurse comes out and rushes by in such an ominous hurry Sam doesn’t dare to ask for Dean’s condition. In fact, he’s not sure he could take the answer.

Finally a gurney’s being pushed out of the OR, and Dean’s not conscious but he’s not dead either. As they pass Sam by he brushes Dean’s arm with the fingers of his right hand fleetingly, like he needs to make sure Dean’s really there, and to let Dean know he’s there as well, before the doctor approaches to inform Sam about Dean’s condition.

He says he’s never seen anyone with such a severe blood loss who still managed to stay alive somehow. He says Dean’s a very strong man (but Sam knows that already because, duh, it’s Dean), and that they’re hopeful. Considering the circumstances Dean’s doing fairly well. Which, going by said circumstances, means not well at all.

“I’m going to stay with him,” Sam tells the doctor, and there’s so much defiance and obstinacy in his words he knows the doc won’t dare to argue.

Sam knows that Dean needs him to be there, and he refuses vehemently to leave when the nurses try to talk him into it. Eventually they give up, and Sam guesses that secretly they’re deeply moved by his love for his brother.

The first day, Sam pretty much lives on coffee alone. He’s exhausted, his body yearning for rest, but he can’t allow that – he needs to be there when Dean wakes up. After all that’s happened, after those days when was Dean being tortured in that basement, there’s no way Sam is going to leave him alone.

Dean sleeps all day; he’s still pale, a drip leading to the back of his hand. Monitors surround him to keep track of his vital signs. But he looks much better than when Sam found him, and Sam clings to that thought because it’s the only comfort he’s got. He sits by his side reading, trying to do cross words but not being able to focus, or doing nothing at all. The chair’s not exactly comfortable, and soon enough his back starts to hurt. He straightens, gets up and paces up and down, but never leaves the room. Except for when he really, really needs to go to the rest room because of all the coffee he’s had.

Then, during the night, Dean suddenly gets worse. He’s running a fever, shivering, his skin sticky with sweat. The doctors inform Sam that two of the bite marks have infected, and that usually the fever wouldn’t be perilous, not a big deal really, but Dean’s very weak as he is right now, and the fever saps him even more. They pump Dean up with antibiotics, and tell Sam that he should prepare for the worst, but Sam isn’t even listening.

He promised he wouldn’t let Dean die. Promised it to Dean, to himself. And he intends to keep that promise.

Sam sticks to Dean’s bed like glue that night. Brushes his brother’s arm, very gently, his cheek too, entangles his fingers with Dean’s. So that Dean knows his brother is there, to reassure him that everything will be fine. Dean moans in his feverish sleep, once his fingers twitch as if he’s meaning to tell Sam something, maybe it’s a “Please don’t leave me alone.” Then he becomes very still again, like in the car, and for four hours Sam keeps praying and begging, his hand firmly on Dean’s left arm, and he keeps talking to his brother, cause if Dean can hear his voice, that might make him stay.

“Remember that time when I was ten and you tried to make me believe Jurassic Park was in fact a documentary and that those dinosaurs really existed, and that the ZOO of Los Angeles had a T-Rex? Or when I was seven and you told me ALF was an actual actor from another planet...” Sam’s voice trails off, finding a little solace in the memory.

“Of course you trained me well...” Sam continues, “Man, I’ll never forget the look on your face when I was twelve, and Dad was out hunting something, and I pretended to be possessed by a spirit. And you were so frightened you actually cried, Dean. You cried. You were sixteen and you cried. ” Sam laughs a little. “Looking back, that wasn’t fair of course. Man, I must have scared the shit out of you, but hey, ‘twas justified revenge. You asked for it.”

“And that one time? Where Dad said that this year we couldn’t get a christmas tree because it was too expensive and stuff, and I kept crying until you went out and bought one from the money that lady had given you for expelling the poltergeist? I think Dad felt pretty bad coming home and seeing you’d spent your money on that tree – but, it was the nicest tree we ever had. “

He talks to Dean until his mind goes completely blank, and there’s nothing more to tell. But as he thinks back to his childhood now, as he reminisces he comes to realise that after all, his childhood didn’t suck so badly as he’d always told himself. They had fun. They had good times. He had Dean. Many children would probably have given anything to have a big brother like him.

When he doesn’t know what else to talk about anymore, he begins to beg. Begs his brother to stay, to hang on, to not leave him – tells him he’s the best brother he could have had, that he’s lucky he got him. In the back of his mind a quiet voice tells Sam that he’s confessing all this now so that Dean still has a chance to hear it before he...

In the early hours of the morning, after a long and straining battle, Dean finally wins, and the fever breaks. When the doctors tell Sam Dean’s out of the woods now a couple of tears flow down Sam’s cheeks, he doesn’t bother to wipe them away. Instead, he takes Dean’s right hand and envelops it with both of his, and smiles –no, laughs - because the relief is just too great.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep in the chair, but when he wakes up, it’s already late and bright sunlight is gleaming through the gaps in the blinds of the window. Sam straightens a little and rubs his neck, it’s horribly stiff. His back is killing him, God, coffee, he needs another coffee. He gets up, stretches, several joints making an ugly noise, something that normally drives Dean insane. In fact Dean claims that Sam must have more joints than any other human being, and Sam smiles at the thought. He decides to pay the coffee dispenser a visit. He wipes sleep from his eyes as he shuffles across the corridor and ruffles his hair, oh Christ, he definitely needs a shower. His shirt’s still soaked by Dean’s blood.

When he returns to the room Dean’s awake and looking at him, and Sam almost drops his cup of coffee in shock. (Luckily he doesn’t – in his head he hears Dean lecture him about spilling precious coffee, and how it’s the 11th Commandment not to do it...).

“Dean!” he gasps.

Dean smiles. His eyes are half shut, he looks tired, and he doesn’t even move his hands or head, like he’s too frail to do it. Probably he is. Almost instantly Sam rushes to his side and places the coffee (carefully, not to spill anything) on the nightstand.

“You scared me, man,” Sam says. Dean mouths a “Sorry,” and Sam gives him a half-smile, “It’s okay, I just hope you didn’t do it on purpose.”

Dean’s eyes fall shut, and he opens them abruptly. They’ve gone a little glassy, and it’s obviously exhausting him to stay awake.

“Get some rest,” Sam tells Dean, patting the back of his head.

“You too,” Dean whispers faintly. It’s the first time Dean speaks to Sam since the vampires took him, and even though his voice is weak, and rough, and scratchy, to Sam it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“I will,” he promises, and Dean dozes off.

***

The following days Sam more or less spends at the hospital. He barely leaves Dean’s side even though Dean sleeps most of the time. They hardly ever talk, because Dean’s too tired and Sam doesn’t want to upset him, and because some things are hard to talk about. He knows he almost lost Dean and he thinks Dean knows it, too.

It’s hanging in the air, always there, like a cloak wrapped around them, but neither speaks of it.

And sometimes Sam imagines what it must have been like, to be in that dark basement, being slowly sapped of strength and life, waiting for help, half aware that maybe this time no one would find him. Sam usually pushes the thought to the back of his mind quickly, because it’s too horrible.

On the eighth day, when Sam returns from the motel where he’d been to get some sleep and a shower, he finds Dean’s bed empty. Of course he’s socked at first, panicking, really, until he’s told that Dean insisted on getting fresh air and was allowed to spend some time outside, and Sam cannot help but smile because that’s so Dean.

It’s a lovely day in fall, the sun’s shining, it’s warm but not hot, a mild breeze shooing the leaves on the ground, spreading them in every direction. Many patients have taken the chance to spend a little time outside in the park, some are with their families, some are on their own. Two kids are playing soccer, while their father – sitting on a bench, crutches leaning against it next to him – is watching them with an amused expression on his face.

“Goal!” says the boy, throwing his arms into the sky triumphantly; “You cheated!” the girl pouts.

Sam ambles by, hands in his pockets, the grass beneath his feet is green and soft, soil’s dry. It hasn’t rained in almost a week, the weather’s been kind. Finally, Sam detects his brother.

He’s slouched in a wheel chair at the far side of the park, a nurse is with him, she’s sitting on a bench nearby and talking to another nurse. Dean’s got his eyes closed, a smile is on his lips, his head’s a little tilted back as he embraces the sunlight, the warmth on his face. His hands are folded in his lap, and in his hospital clothes and the thick blue bathrobe, he looks so unlike Dean Sam’s taken aback and stops, rooted to the spot.

It takes Sam a short moment before he’s collected himself again, because this feels so weird and wrong. The nurse notices first, she stops talking to her friend and looks up, smiles, then she reaches out her hand to shake Dean’s left shoulder gently, “You have a visitor,” she says.

Dean blinks and looks around confusedly, then his glance meets Sam who’s drawing closer and his lips curve to a smile, “Hi there,” Dean greets him. “Hi,” Sam replies, before he says hello to the nurse. He tells her he can take care of his brother now, and she informs him Dean’s got to go back inside soon to rest. Sam promises he’ll see to it, and she gets up, pats Dean on the shoulder amicably, and leaves together with her friend. Both Dean and Sam look after them for a while (for different reasons), before Sam sits down on the bench where the nurse sat a minute ago, crossing his legs.

“How’re you?” he asks casually.

“Fine,” Dean replies. He doesn’t bother to twist his head so he can see Sam better but Sam knows it’s nothing personal, it’s just that Dean doesn’t like to talk about these kinds of things, he’s never much cared for the ‘hospital talk’, not even as a kid. Even now, he shifts in his wheel chair uncomfortably, bracing himself for the things to come.

“Didn’t suspect you’d be outside already. Didn’t the doctors say something about a lot of rest, and not overdoing things?” Sam’s not really upset, more amused.

“Dude, I needed some fresh air. The sick people in there are killing me.”

“I thought you were too...”

“Yeah, I know you did.”

His voice is quiet, a little rough because he obviously hasn’t talked much in the past days, and because he’s still weak. Weaker than he is willing to show, and by his standards, Dean’s already showing a lot. Which tells a lot about his condition.

Both fall silent, but it’s not an awkward silence. Sam checks his wrist watch, he should probably get Dean back to his room in a couple of minutes. He closes his eyes and listens to the wind, the rustling of the leaves, the other people laughing and talking. Then, unexpectedly, Dean’s voice is added to the throng:

“I thought you were dead.”

Sam’s eyes fling open. “What?”

“In the basement. Kate told me they’d killed you, and...after a while I began to believe her. I really thought I was going to die in there, and I really thought they’d murdered you...”

Sam watches him, his forehead twisted into a frown. He’s not sure how to react because these moments in which Dean opens up, they’re so seldom (Sam once referred to them as “being extinct”) he never could work out a routine for them. It’s a bit like in that book by Jane Austen he once read in school, with those different sisters Elanor and Marianne, they’re like them Sam thinks, though hell will freeze over before he’ll admit to Dean he compares them to a chick novel. Apparently, Dean doesn’t expect a comment from his brother, because he continues, “I heard you, you know.”

“When?” Sam asks. His brother hangs his head a bit, his eyes are now half shut from exhaustion and Sam just wants to push him back inside so he can have a nap, but he knows better than that. Dean needs to talk, it happens rarely enough, and if Sam cuts him off now chances are Dean will never tell him what he means to tell him now.

“All the time. I mean...when I was ill with the fever.”

“You heard me?”

Dean chuckles quietly, “Yeah.”

“Everything?”

Dean shrugs a little, “Well...most of it I guess. I didn’t really listen as such I just. I heard your voice. I knew you were there. It was like -”, he struggles for words, “ – like a direction I could hold onto, you know? It was there all the time.”

He pauses, and finally he turns his head to face Sam, his eyes lock with his brother’s and another moment passes before Dean finally adds:

“You know, you can be quite clingy, Samantha.”

His tone’s gone back to mocky again, and inside of him Sam’s so happy he could dance (if only he wouldn’t look so stupid doing it) right here on the lawn. Because Dean’s still Dean, and always will be, and he also knows his brother just thanked him, though Dean would probably rather face three werewolves than admit it.

Sam smirks, and nods, and pats Dean on the shoulder.

“You’re welcome,” he says, adapting Dean’s mocking tone, “and now, let’s get you back inside. Jurassic Park is on tv.”

-end-